by Julie Hanson
You don't need to know its name
to know it is a weed; if it
has taken hold between two
paving bricks, if its thin root
or complex undermop is wedged
where the concrete riser joins the concrete step,
then assuredly it is.
It is redundant, stubborn work,
to which you squat or kneel or bend,
moving lowly in one manner
or another over the entire area
to be covered so that, naturally,
afterwards, you'll ache.
And yet, what better use
could you have put these to:
one yellow-handled tool
and two tightening circles of thought?
For those times when the heart, still
resonant and stunned,
this is the kind of work you want,
mindless work, where it is best to look
no more than one weed ahead,
and where the iron inability to set a course
drills the focus downwards
with single-mindedness and depth.
please note: photo by undertheturnpike
Well, it has been Home Sweet Home for a few days now. If HoneyHaired ever downloads her photos I'll post them, but it essentially looked like this--
Being home was a bit of a transition since Hubby and Honeyhaired were gone the next day and CollegeGrrrl had left the day before. Wasn't expecting to feel quite so lonesome without everyone around and the dog was very perplexed. He'd been able to walk without a leash and come in and out of the lakehouse to sleep on the porch in the sun whenever he wanted. And there were rabbits and new dogs and dead fish to sniff out. I tried to channel my inner Doris Day and thought frantically, "WWDD?"
Doris would turn her home into vacation-land home and surprise her hubby, Cary Grant. And, look fabulous the entire time. And sing...
I didn't quite get there. Yet.